


Keep On Haunting Me

by meandminniemcg



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But I promise he isn't, Draco thinks he is dead, Estate agent!Harry, Ghost!Draco, M/M, Ugh I hate MCD and won't write it, haunted house for sale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-01-02 09:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21159743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meandminniemcg/pseuds/meandminniemcg
Summary: How does one sell a haunted house - especially if the ghost is one's school rival? And does Harry want to sell it at all? And why the fuck is Malfoy a ghost?





	1. House for sale

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta wynafryd-manderly

Harry didn’t know why the Muggle job he took was that of a real estate agent. Why had he listened to that divination-obsessed bint? Four years ago, Parvati had told him to; she had insisted that he would find something he had lost by working in that business; and he had just known he needed a Muggle job if he wanted to avoid the unwelcome attention of the wizarding press on a daily basis. He couldn’t just go converting Sirius’ Galleons to Pounds all the time.

Kingsley had reluctantly accepted his resignation from the Auror department, and made sure he had a secret Floo connection to the houses of his very best friends that was personalized. Only Hermione and Ron, the Weasleys, Luna, Neville, Dean and Seamus, Lavender and Parvati, Andromeda and Teddy, Headmistress McGonagall and Kingsley himself could Floo to his house. He could Floo via one of their addresses if he wanted to go to any wizarding location.

The house he was put in charge of today was a kind of oddity, as his boss, Ms. McIntyre had told him. It had been empty for seven years, but showed no signs of disrepair, maybe some very careful person had been squatting there. The former owner had been in a nursing home for the past seven years, and now, after her death, her heir wanted to sell the house ASAP.

Harry walked through the front garden, taking in the cherry tree, the mix of wildflowers and garden flowers gone wild. There were beautiful roses that Mrs. Figg would be proud of, if they had not crawled wildly all over the place. But something about it had a nice feeling to it.

He put the key with the hexagonal head into the lock and turned it. A scent that seemed vaguely familiar hit him. And he saw a corridor of Hogwarts before his inner eye and felt a wave of excitement, but he just couldn’t grasp what the exciting thing was. The memory was weirdly cut off, but there was this mix of adrenaline and feeling alive with it.

He shook his head, took his wand out of his hidden sleeve pocket and cast a Homenum Revelio. Nothing happened. The corridor was dark, and pressing the light switch didn’t change a thing. Harry cast a Lumos and checked. There was no light bulb in the lamp on the ceiling, but the stairs looked as if the water from cleaning them had only just dried.

He ascended the stairs to look at the mezzanine, where there was the sitting room, a large kitchen, and a room that could be used as dining room or an office. Or, if there was someone in the family with difficulties with climbing stairs, as a bedroom. It was big enough for any of these purposes. Opposite the spare room was a fully furnished bathroom with an easily accessible shower. The kitchen and bathroom overlooked the front garden, as he saw when he opened the fir green shutters.

As he wanted to open the sitting room shutters, he had the feeling that someone stood behind him. He drew his wand and turned around quickly. “Leave this…” The pale form of a ghost stood in the middle of the room, and if ghosts were able to breathe, the ghost would have gasped. “Potter, do you even stalk me now that I’m dead? I’m a ghost, I can’t be up to anything. Are you and your Auror pals now sending ghosts to Azkaban? Have fun trying. I’m confined to this house.”

“M-Malfoy? I had no idea you were here. I had no idea you were a ghost.” Harry ruffled his hair. “Now you know. And you can piss off.” Malfoy glared at him. “I can’t. I’m here for work, not as an Auror, I quit the Aurors, but as an estate agent. The owner died and her heir wants to sell the house.” Harry locked eyes with Malfoy in a silent challenge.

“Florence is dead? And I never found out if she’s a Malfoy Squib.” Malfoy dramatically rolled up in a ball on the floor.

Harry sat down beside him and tried to pat his shoulder, forgetting that Malfoy would not have anything touchable.

“Stop that! It’s inappropriate and invasive to poke into a ghost, most especially if the ghost is your former archrival,” Malfoy sneered.

“Sorry, Malfoy. Er, I just wanted to comfort you.”

Malfoy gave him an exasperated look. “Comfort me! Who on earth has ever heard of it being possible to comfort a ghost? And then you of all people want to comfort me? Potty, you are even crazier than I thought.”

The doorbell chimed, and Harry answered. A slim middle-aged couple whose facial expressions and clothes style reminded him of the Dursleys stood there. “Mr. and Mrs. Walters?” Harry asked, beckoning them into the house.

“Can you tell us something about the neighbors here? We wouldn’t want to live next door from noisy children or weirdos with tattoos,” Mr. Walters said, and Harry felt the desire to hex him into next week, but poor next week.

The air seemed to stir behind Harry, and he heard Malfoy’s voice drawl: “Mr. O’Dell owns a tattoo shop and Mrs. and Mrs. Yusufi…”

A shriek from Mrs. Walters interrupted him. “Philipp, do something! A ghost!” She pushed Harry aside and ran out of the house. Her Husband followed her. “Rude!” Malfoy yelled after them.

Harry bit his tongue in order to hold back the laugh until after the couple had driven away.

When he had calmed down, he said: “Sorry, Malfoy, I didn’t know they were such idiots, they hadn’t talked to me but only to my boss.”

“You should leave, Potter.”

“Bye, Malfoy.”


	2. Emerald Eyes

As soon as Harry was home, he left his car in the garage and Flooed to Hermione and Ron. By now the exhilaration at Draco’s scaring the horrible couple away had ceased to a more appropriate feeling upon learning about the death of a former school acquaintance. Although, did everyone think of missing the sparkle of some acquaintance’s eyes? Now as a ghost, Malfoy’s eyes weren’t sparkling, they just looked hazy.

“Harry, mate, what’s wrong with you? You look like somebody died.” Ron got up from the sofa and pulled Harry into a hug.

“Mal-Malfoy!” Harry brought out, and the dam behind his eyes broke. He cried on Ron’s shoulder, sobbing desperately.

Ron rubbed soothing circles on his back. Hermione came over and both Granger-Weasleys hugged Harry muttering words of comfort.

When Harry’s sobbing was a bit calmer, Hermione asked: “What’s the matter with Malfoy?”

“He’s - dead, he’s a - ghost.” The words felt like an ever-growing foul lump in his mouth.

“Someone told you today?” Hermione’s question was in a matter-of-fact, yet compassionate tone.

“I – I saw him. He’s haunting the house I have to sell.” Harry breathed.

“Mate, what did you feel when you saw him?” Ron asked.

“Ronald! What do wizards normally feel when they see ghosts?” Hermione reproached her fiancé.

“We have to help Harry work through his feelings. Malfoy has always played a special role for Harry,” Ron said in a patient yet slightly exasperated voice.

“I was shocked that Malfoy was a ghost, then he looked so desperate, I wish I could have hugged and comforted him, but he’s still prickly, and when he scared the horrible couple away who wanted to buy the house, he made me laugh so hard. I don’t think I’ve laughed like that in years. Sorry, I’m not making sense.” Harry ruffled his hair.

“That’s a whole messy lot of feelings, small wonder it overwhelms you.” Ron concluded.

“You are talking like my mindhealer would.” Harry mumbled.

“Well, each of us spends enough time with their mindhealers to be able to channel that when need arises.” Hermione gave Ron a soft look. “Did Malfoy tell you when and how he died?”

“He didn’t. Wait! I think something was off about it, like, he didn’t feel the way Nearly Headless Nick or Moaning Myrtle feel.” Harry couldn’t put his finger on it, but listening to his instincts had often helped him survive, so if his instinct told him Malfoy felt different, it might mean something.

  


**

Draco didn’t know how it was for others, but for him, after becoming a ghost, time had become a rather blurry matter. Apart from the time Potter had been here (was it an hour or a year ago?) the hours might have ticked away like seconds, or he skipped a lot of them. He could see days and nights passing, but while he could easily count the leaves on the cherry tree outside the kitchen window, despite their large number, he was unable to count the days.

Sometimes Quipsy came over and asked him what to clean or repair, otherwise, he spent his waking times in solitude. Most of all, he pondered the weirdness of things. The weirdest thing of all was not what was different, but what wasn’t. Potter still had the same effect on him.

Draco had gotten used to not seeing colours, but there was one thing still in its original colour, Potter’s eyes. Their emerald green had still held its beauty. And, although he would not admit it to any living or dead soul, as a ghost he obviously could still appreciate looking at a fine arse. If only that arse didn’t belong to someone who would always hate him!

Ghosts could even feel horny. But there was no relief for it. He was bound to this house, there was no way of escaping, let alone the fact that it was not likely that anywhere on earth there would be a club at which he could pull a ghost bloke.

And wanking obviously was not enough to get it out of his system. How the fuck did the Scarhead get under his skin even when he no longer had one.

A sound from outside made Draco interrupt his pacing and moping. He checked his fly and listened up. “And you think that we can see what’s off about this ghost? Harry, are you sure you aren’t just obsessing over Malfoy again?” The voice belonged to Granger, at least it wasn’t the Weaslette, or was she now Mrs. Potter?

“Of course, he’s obsessing, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t right about it.” The Weasel, of course. But what was this thing with obsessing?

Draco heard the Golden Trio’s loud footsteps, then they entered the downstairs kitchen. He made himself dense enough to be visible in the hall.

“Potter, didn’t I tell you to leave me alone? And now you come here with Granger and the Weasel?” He sneered.

“Er, I need to talk to you. And this house has to be sold, and I want it to be only bought by people you want to have here.” Potter’s voice sounded shy.

“And you think I’ll be happy to live with Granger and the Weasel?” Draco snarled.

Potter laughed - a full belly laugh, like he would usually laugh with his friends. No, he must be laughing at him. “Malfoy, they have a nice house already, they are here to help me figure out how to help you.”

“Wouldn’t you help me most by leaving me alone?” Why did he have to sound so whiny when he wanted to sound like Snape, maybe. Who would take him seriously if he sounded like a spoilt brat?

“Malfoy, as a ghost you have three options. Either you haunt at random until batshit crazy Muggles come here and ask you about whether their dead grandma has hidden treasures in her garden, or you pretend you don’t exist, or you let us who know about you and think you deserve a decent afterlife help you. And if you didn’t get it when I spoke for you at your trial, I don’t consider you an enemy, and haven’t in years.” Potter ruffled his hair and sat down on the ground.

Draco rolled his eyes, but they had a point there, it wasn’t a pleasant idea to have a choice between being ignored and being asked questions he had no idea about. It looked like cooperating with Potter and his entourage was the lesser evil. But why did his one and only ticket to an acceptable afterlife have to have the sexiest body in the whole world?


	3. What happened to Malfoy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit sad; we reach the peak of the angst; but I promise the next chapter will bring hope.

Ron looked to and fro between Harry and Malfoy. He may normally pretend to be oblivious of people’s love stories, because they were none of his business. But this was Harry, and if someone hurt Harry he and Hermione were the ones to pick up the pieces and help him survive. And for some reason, Harry clung to the idea of helping Malfoy.

It just confirmed what Ron had always suspected: That there had been more to Harry’s spying on Malfoy in sixth year. By now, it was beyond the shadow of a doubt that Harry had lots of feelings for Malfoy, the way he was checking him out and acting with more bluster and swagger than he normally did. Had he ever acted like that before? Surely he hadn’t behaved like this around Ginny.

Draco also gave Ron the impression of a preening peacock. That was damn bad timing! How could they be doing anything about it if Malfoy was dead? Ron wasn’t sure if Malfoy was worth it, but then, in the past two years, he had seen Harry losing interest in so many things, he would have accepted a fucking acromantula if it brought the light back into Harry’s eyes. But how was it even possible to have a love affair with a ghost?

  


***

“How did it happen?” Hermione interrupted the discussion between Harry and Malfoy about how to minimise the trouble of house buyers.

“What do you mean?” Harry inquired.

“How did Malfoy, you know…?” Ron inserted.

“Die.” Malfoy sighed. He suddenly looked weary.

Harry wanted to pull him into a hug, but that wasn’t possible.

“I had been living here alone after Florence had broken her hip outside and was taken to hospital. I only found out she was in hospital when I sent Quipsy to find her. She knew about magic; she was a Squib, but the information about what family she was from was obliviated from her mind. If she had broken her hip at home, I could have healed it easily, but I wasn’t even around. And if I had healed her in hospital, it would have broken the fucking statute of secrecy, and I would have ended up in Azkaban. So, I had to accept that she was gone. I visited her in hospital and in the nursing home. All I could do was to cast pain relieving charms on her. It was so frustrating.”

Harry reached out his hand, but then reminded himself that comforting touches weren’t possible.

“One day, when I came back from the nursing home, there was a parcel on the table, and I assumed that Quipsy had left it there, that it was from Mother. I opened it, and inside was a box. When I touched it, a notice-me-not was lifted, and the last thing I saw before dying was Rabastan’s face. When I came to as a ghost, he told me that the best thing to hurt Mother was killing me and letting her not even get a body to bury. He had put the cursed box there.” The despair made Malfoy’s voice sound more ghostly.

“Merlin forbid that I see Rabastan Lestrange! I’d cast an AK without even batting an eye!” Harry finally brought out through the choking rage.

He felt something like a gust of wind around his shoulder, and as he looked, Malfoy’s hand hovered there. “I’m hardly worth going to Azkaban for.”

“You are…” Harry started, not knowing what he wanted to say, except that Malfoy was worth a lot. But Ron interrupted him.

“Nobody needs to kill Lestrange. He’s dead already, perished through messing up his own very dark ritual, as the Unspeakables who examined his body found out. I saw the body.” Ron scrunched up his nose. “It was a disgusting sight. But his head, his wand-hand and his magical signature were intact enough to identify him beyond a shadow of a doubt.”


End file.
